


Parting Gift

by elsewherewolf



Category: game of thrones
Genre: M/M, Slightly dubious consent, not exactly canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsewherewolf/pseuds/elsewherewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon will go to the wall soon.  Jaime doesn't think he should go without some sort of parting gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting Gift

Jaime appreciates the look of leather, moulded as it is to Jon's body. Softened with wearing, it moves the way that Jon moves; gracefully, easily. He watches Jon nock another arrow, watches the arm pull back and sees, even through the thick clothes, the tension build across Jon's shoulders as the bowstring is pulled taut. He watches those shoulders rise and fall slowly, a deep breath that puffs out and freezes on the grey air.

Then the narrowing of dark eyes, target sought and found, and a quick, certain release. The arrow thumps into the wood and Jon dips his chin, satisfied.

Jaime wants to make some noise, to make his presence known, but the moment passes and instead he turns and leaves Jon to the rest of his practise.

+

Some hours have passed and Winterfell is bathed now in the light of torches, warm with drunken songs and the usual tales of bravado crashing out of open doors.

Jaime is not waiting, in particular. He simply happens to be in this place that Jon comes to when the singing and the stories become too much to bear. He sees the direwolf first, then Snow, a pale beacon in the night. Furs pulled tight against the cold, the glisten of freezing rain in his dark curls.

Jaime closes his eyes for one brief moment, imprints that sight onto his memory because he is well aware that there will come a day when he needs it. Ned Stark is too good a man not to find his way into the worst kind of trouble, and soon at that. When he opens his eyes again, he curses his weakness because Jon is nowhere to be seen.

"How like a Lannister to be skulking in the shadows."

The voice is warm and thick with wine and courage, but it is not a courage that extends further than those words. Jon swallows when Jaime turns to look at him, takes the smallest of steps back.

"And how like a Stark to hold his wine with such... dignity. If only you were a Stark."

"I am not drunk." 

Recovered, Jaime snakes out his hand to catch Jon's hip, laughs quietly when the boy stumbles. "Indeed?" He sees panic in Jon's eyes, in the line of his jaw, and tenses for a fight that does not come. Snow thinks this a game of his, and perhaps it is just a game. Or it was. Jon slips out of Jaime's grasp, turning to leave, and Jaime can do nothing but change the rules if he is to address this incendiary _want_ that began somewhere between the nocking and releasing of an arrow.

"I cannot decide if you fear the Kingslayer, or if it is Jaime Lannister who pulls at your nerves. Tell me, Jon Snow. One animal to another, do you believe I might tear out your throat if provoked? Or is it worse even than that?" That, at least, stops Jon in his tracks. Snow will never leave words unsaid, nor questions unanswered.

"I know that you watch me. I do not know why; I am nothing. I am Snow, tolerated by all but not-"

"Loved?" Jaime should not mock, but he cannot resist. "A terrible fate, to be given a roof and a family. Terrible indeed."

"It is not the same as belonging. You said the words yourself. 'If only you were a Stark.'"

"I hold you in greater regard than the rest of them, Snow. You spend your life fighting, just as I do."

Jon snorts, looking back at Jaime. "You?"

"You think that Lannisters have the world handed to them on a silver platter, but you are wrong. We take what we want, but not always without a fight."

"What is it that you want here? What, in Winterfell, is of any interest to you?"

Jaime closes the distance between them again, keeps walking Jon until the wall at Jon's back forces a nervous gasp from him. Real fear, wine now evaporated, and Jon squirms but Jaime takes hold of both of his wrists and pins them hard against the stone.

"What do you imagine it could be?"

"I do not know, Sir, that is why I ask." 

"Then allow me to give you the measure of an answer," Jaime says, hoarse with wanting him, and shoves his knee between Jon's so that the hard ridge of his cock can be felt. "Big enough for you, little virgin?"

Jon's throat flushes red, but he does not deny the charge. Though there is still an ounce of defiance left in him, from how his eyes lift to meet Jaime's, how his teeth flash around a gutless snarl. "Am I your last conquest? Surely you have bedded every other-"

Jaime silences him, because his words are empty courage, and because the boy's mouth is asking for his. Lips are covered, sucked into soreness, bitten into near bloody ruins because Jon whimpers at the first impact and the sound of it makes Jaime feel half-crazed. His cock feels thick inside his britches; thick, and he wants to break Jon with it. Leave Jon worshipping him for the rest of his life, because is that not what this boy least desires? Perhaps, and perhaps not if the ease with which Jon surrenders is anything to judge by.

It is not true, either; Jaime has not spread himself around like a cheap whore. Jon simply caught his eye. Something about him seems frozen, suspended, as if waiting for some new misery to arrive at his feet. Young and old all at once, and prettier than any other Stark - he must have his mother to thank for that.

Jaime stops assaulting Jon's mouth eventually, at the tang of blood on his tongue. Jon turns his head, blinking, furious - Jaime suspects that anger is directed at nobody but himself - and the pale threads of his throat that Jaime glimpses between tangled strands of dark curls are too much. 

He closes mouth and teeth on that sweet skin, pressing at Jon's wrists when the boy winces, then groans. _I will leave my mark on you. Not just for tonight, but for every night you lie awake or keep watch in the desperate cold at the Wall. Long after you forget my name, you will remember this._

Not until he feels something change, not until Jon finally turns to offer the other side of his throat, does Jon let those wrists go. And when he does, there comes a frantic scrabbling at clothes, a dragging push that is shame and need and Jon beneath him, thighs wide and body arcing. 

Jaime wastes little time, drops to his knees, disturbing dust and what shreds of self-respect Jon might still be clinging to. Pulls the young and eager cock into his mouth, relishing the taste and the surrender, the moment Jon realises there is no escape from this. Not now.

Mere moments before Jon's hands grip his shoulders tight, tighter, and there comes that moment of perfect stillness before the toes curl and the cock across Jaime's tongue pulses, filling his throat. He swallows, come and dignity, and rises to his feet, his hands keeping Jon upright. He lifts Jon's chin, wanting to see his eyes. The regret, the confusion like he does not know whether he should hate himself or Jaime more. The unmistakable heat of another unspoken want, and the dazed bliss of knowing what it is to be a man.

"Turn yourself," Jaime mutters, and Jon looks for a moment like he does not understand the words - certainly it is not defiance that makes him pause. He struggles to accept that he has given in, and that he will give in again, so easily. What does it mean? Jon asks him, with that momentary glance before he turns around, lets his forehead fall against the stone wall, and breathes out a ragged breath.

Backside pale and offered, fingers curled into non-existent hand holds, shoulders lean and sheened with sweat, Jon trembles, waiting. And Jaime enjoys letting him wait, enjoys simply standing back to admire the view. 

"No one must know," Jon says suddenly, weakly.

" _Everyone_ will know," Jaime tells him, finishing the messy job that Jon had started on undressing him. "At least, they will know that you were fucked." And that is the point of this, after all. To send Jon to the Wall no longer a virgin. To give him some warmth on those long and lonely watches. Whether it is pity, some sense of brotherhood, or a kind of vengeance on Ned Stark, or even something else entirely, Jaime himself does not know. In the end, the reason for it does not matter.

What matters is saliva on his glove, Jon's gasp and shiver at the touch of it, the moan and the low thump of his palm against the wall as Jaime's thumb begins to breach tight muscle. What matters is the inevitable moment of resistance before something gives, and Jaime feeling like he is a burning God and that Jon was not expecting his cock to be quite so heavy, nor so thickly swollen. Jaime takes the scruff of Jon's neck between his teeth, bent over him like they are rutting animals - and perhaps they are only that but Jaime wonders if Jon is not also leaving some mark of his own behind, here. Because he is this lean, pale youngster who caught Jaime's eye with nothing more than the nocking of an arrow.

He grunts, pulling Jon's hips back up into his own, reaching for Jon's cock to find it already stirring. The beauty of youth.

Closes his eyes, because Jon cannot seem to stop the spasmodic constrictions of his sweet virgin arse around Jaime's cock and it is absolutely _maddening._ Mostly because Jaime does not know whether to move or remain still and allow Jon to do all the hard work for him. In the end, it is too unbearable not to fuck Jon like he promised that he would, base, one animal to another. He mauls the skin in his teeth, bruises Jon's hips with the blunt tips of his fingers, hears Jon whimper and moan and stroke himself. 

It is like nothing else, Jaime thinks. Debasing Jon like this, seeing the conflict in the smacking of his fist into the wall, feeling it in the laboured breaths, tasting it in his skin, it threatens to overpower them both. 

Jaime lets go instead, his shoulders heaving and his shout muffled in Jon's skin when he comes, throat feeling as constricted as his cock.

He is not usually one to struggle for words; he is more than able to best most men in any duel performed with words alone, but as he finds himself another minute after climax still with his hips flush against Jon's, his thighs cradling the pretty, soft backside, he cannot speak.

Instead he sends silent accusations at the back of Jon's head. _What have you done to me? Who are_ you _to do such a thing?_

It takes him another long minute before he remembers to pull his near soft cock from Jon's body, and he cannot help the hitch of his breath, is glad that Jon's does the same because it means he will not notice.

"Run along to your bed now, bastard," he says, hoarsely. And it is enough to have Jon hurriedly redressing himself, not looking Jaime in the eye before he departs. He is broken, of that there is no doubt.

Jaime only wonders if there is a part of him that also is no longer whole.


End file.
